


The ties that bind

by felixfvlicis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 20:40:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8416018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felixfvlicis/pseuds/felixfvlicis
Summary: After the war, Harry and Draco are desperate to find themselves again.  Harry wants to hold on.  Draco wants to let go.





	

Harry hovered above the Hogwarts Express on his broom, feeling the air whooshing from the train, the heavy autumnal smoke enveloping his nostrils.  He last rode that train sixteen years ago, and if he’s honest with himself, he hasn’t felt at home since.

 

He sighed, closing his eyes.  He longed to be the Harry of old, the young boy who knew next to nothing about the wizarding world and its dangers, the boy who felt such affection for Sirius and Remus because they reminded him that he was loved and never alone, the boy who held Cedric Diggory in such high regard because he wasn’t the boy-who-lived, he was simply _good_.  That’s all Harry had ever wanted to be — good.  Not a wizard, not a savior, _just Harry_.

 

Everything hurt.

 

A need to feel grounded pulled Harry from his reverie.  He pointed his broom downward and landed with a heavy thump in the narrow patch of grass between clay-colored earth and some decaying, bruise-tinted bushes.  Stuck, literally, between the living and the dead.  At the realization, Harry let out a small chuckle, which birthed a steadier laughter, registering as high-pitched hysteria to his ears.  He toppled backwards, his arms and hands splayed out on either side of him, digging his nails into the ground.  His throat was thick with saliva as he swallowed, tears beginning to prickle in his eyes, coating his inner lenses with a salty wet, patchy film.

 

He grieved for Remus and Tonks, for Sirius, for Dumbledore and Snape, hell, even for Lavender Brown, remembering how she looked, glassy-eyed, dead, as Greyback tore into her neck and sucked, leaving her corpse mangled once he’d been discovered.  The grief that threatened to reveal itself under a dementor’s disguise and drain the last bit of life from his chest, though, was for _Harry_.  The young child who never knew a warm embrace, yet understood love and sacrifice, remembering the pensieve memory, seeing it flashed across his mother’s face as she saved his life, but stole his innocence.  He would never know how to be _just_ Harry.

 

 

That was the day — lying between life and death beneath the yellowish-green grass, watching the Hogwarts express roll by as it rattled his bones, reminding him that he could feel, that he was alive — that Harry let go.

 

**—**

 

The sound of the rain knocking at the windows, hitting the panes with a fervor that Draco wished he’d felt — for anything — caused him to avert his gaze from the book splayed out in front of him.  He was hunched over his desk, wisps of now golden blonde hair falling across his eye, trying to make sense of the spells blurring together across the parchment.

 

He blinked.  His body felt so heavy with the weight of his father’s sins, that unrelenting voice, woven into the other compartmentalized sections of his mind, spitting a repetitive, vehement _you’ll never be good enough, never be forgiven, death eater_.  The small boy inside of him — the one who reached for Potter’s hand, the one who taunted the Weasley’s just to get a rise out of Potter, who longed for Professor Snape’s approval and mere acknowledgement of his own wit from Hermione — still believed that voice.  That was Draco’s true tragedy.

 

He’d just begun his ninth year teaching at Hogwarts, once again retaining his title of Potions Master.  In truth, he was surprised to have ended up back here.  After going through the war and his father’s imprisonment, he packed a trunk full of his belongings and set off across the worlds, living as a nomad.  He visited Paris, Brussels, Rome, and Amsterdam — hoping to begin anew.  To wash his hands of the Malfoy name, to simply become _Draco_.  Despite traveling, the homesick feeling threatened to overtake him at every turn — the gravitational pull knocking him to his knees, beckoning him to the familiarities of his youth.  _Home_ , the voice murmured.

 

**—**

 

Nightfall crept across the sky, sweeping the late-evening glow to the side.  If Harry listened closely enough, he swore he could hear the breeze whisper _‘be patient’_.  The air smelled sweetly of decay, reminding him of blackberry wine — the way the pits lodged themselves in between his teeth, a nagging black spot staining the white sheen he worked so diligently to preserve, while his throat was coated with a juicy sweet liquid, tasting of desirous promises yet to be birthed.

 

Thinking of the dark plum staining his lips, he was reminded, somehow, of a seventh year Malfoy at the manor, touted in black from head to toe, plum colored bruises settling beneath his cheekbones as he struggled to identify Potter.

 

Harry fell asleep.

 

**—**

 

The lights reflecting shadows on the windows of Hogwarts illuminated Draco’s path to the train.  The air was thick with anticipation and a hint of sweetness, reminding him of his grandfather’s apple trees on the manor.  He remembers the sticky bittersweet juice coating his fingertips as he clumsily attempted to lick them dry.  He loved the taste, but insisted on whining to his mother as she spelled his fingers clean, before smoothing his hair, pushing it from his eyes.

 

A cold chill made Draco wince, pulling him from the memory.  Though he’d never admit it to anyone who asked, he felt a small thrill from greeting first-years.  Their eager faces, so full of promise, so innocent — it made him long for a time-turner.

 

He stood on the platform, alternating between coursing fingertips through his aged-golden blonde hair and shoving a hand in the pocket of his peacoat. He was waiting for the train to come to a full stop, when something in the sky caught his attention.  The Draco constellation.  His mother told him stories about it when he was younger, though he was hesitant to believe her, because he’d never seen it.  He had difficulty believing anything intangible, if he was honest.  His breathing slowed, deepened, as he fixed his eyes with such a look of determination that not even the most enthusiastic glances from a first-year would dull it.

 

He had to find a broom.

 

**—**

 

Once the sorting ceremony concluded and the young wizards were in Headmaster Longbottom’s care, Draco exited the Great Hall and began a brisk walk toward Snape’s old classroom, his arms dangling at his sides as he walked.  If he remembered correctly, there were two spare brooms in the supply closet, surrounded by fermented potions.

 

Snape’s old classroom was locked, and only Draco had a key.  He pulled open one door of the supply closet and found exactly what he was looking for — the broom handle was lumpy, jagged, and Draco smiled as he ran his fingers over his initials.  He breathed, remembering the last time he flew one of these with another person — with Potter, through the fiendfyre.  He clung to Potter like a lifeline — because he _was_.  Draco neck colored as he chuckled at the thought, wondering what Potter was up to now.

 

He acknowledged students as they passed with a singular nod, a hint of a smile forming across his lips.  He didn’t need to see his reflection to know that there was a gleam in his eyes.  His skin tingled, as if it was pulled taut, and could snap at any moment, the pulse of a new beginning taking root in his bones.

 

The moment Draco stepped out into the courtyard, bounding toward the vast, grassy landscape ahead, the voice nagged at him, again — _death eater, death eater, death eater_.  It didn’t even sound like two words anymore, just a never ending phrase, carving out the good pieces of him that still remained, the death eater inside swallowing them whole.  Panic seized him.  He wasn’t fifteen anymore.  This wasn’t a routine practice on the Quidditch pitch.  He wasn’t going to feel the rush, the vibration of ecstasy that ran through him once he caught the snitch, feel the victory of taking it from his only worthy opponent.  Malfoy would have done that.  Draco wasn’t _Malfoy_ anymore.  He didn’t want to be.  Suddenly, for the first time since he returned to Hogwarts, he wanted out.  To be away from these grounds, weightlessly floating above the air, he wished for time to stand still, so that he could be free — frozen in time — his body, the mark, the only remnant of his tainted legacy, his name a topic of conversation after the pitying _‘if only’s’_ tumbled from people’s lips.

 

**—**

 

When Harry woke, he was choking.  His mouth felt prickly like cotton and his lips were tinged with crimson.  This time, he stood in the forbidden forest, waiting to meet his death, when Ron appeared — a green light glowing from his wand as the Avada catapulted itself off of his lips and straight into Harry.  Just before everything went black, Harry watched Ron peel his skin off of his face as he laughed, coming face-to-face with the Dark Lord.

 

His hands gripped the earth again as he fixed his gaze on the sky above, willing his chest to rise and fall with the breeze.  Instinctually, he removed a hand from the ground and reached to touch his scar.  No blood, no throbbing, but ever-present.

 

Several minutes later, Harry’s breathing steadied as the copper taste in his mouth became diluted with saliva.  He swallowed thickly, and began to rub his eyes.  Upon opening them, the Draco constellation was clear and bright, illuminating the sky.  _Draco._ Harry felt an odd sense of peace settle in his chest, as if his heart knew the answer to a question his brain had yet to formulate.

 

Harry was so lost in the depths of his mind that he’d forgotten his broom was lying right behind him, begging to be released into the weightless atmosphere.  He tried to sit up, but the earth tethered him to the ground.  His legs felt heavy, he was so tired.  He simply couldn’t, anymore.

 

**—**

 

Draco hurt.  He wanted to fly, despite the voices roaring in the depths of his subconscious.  As much as he tried to escape the past, to begin anew, he had yet to face a glaring truth: after all these years, he remained at war with himself — despite Draco’s challenges at every turn, Malfoy remained the victor, unable to be defeated.  The thought of running circles around his life, always coming up short, was worse than death.  All those years ago, he never understood how or why Potter kept running — it’s never worth it.

 

Resigned, a thin stream of breath escaped Draco’s lips as he grabbed his broom, mounted it, and flew away. He had nothing left to lose.  As soon as his feet left the earth, the tension escaped his body — he was in control, the ghost of Malfoy free-falling into the dust cloud below him — shattering into tiny pieces, his memory flooded with visions of Longbottom clipping Nagini’s neck with the sword of Gryffindor as he watched the Dark Lord crumble before him.

 

He sighed, weaving through the nearly translucent clouds, longing to catch his constellation — to touch it — to feel the spark of electricity, to bathe in the light, beginning again.

 

**—**

 

Harry shifted back into the earth, let the back of his head rest against the bristles of his broom.  He closed his eyes and parted his lips, weighty, wordless confessions releasing themselves into the atmosphere, flying higher and higher, twisting, tumbling, like little golden snitches, waiting to be captured.  When he opened his eyes, the constellation gleamed against the ink ladened backdrop of the night sky.  Harry hmm’ed, curiously, as he adjusted his glasses to get a better look.

 

A tiny golden snitch was pressed up against the net of the constellation, lilting back and forth.  Harry gaped at it, breathless.  He thought of the last time he’d held a snitch — up against his mouth, the words brushing his lips —

 

_I open at the close._

 

He sat up, never taking his eyes off of the golden light, mimicking its easy, lazy sway.  Harry smiled.

 

**—**

 

Draco rested against the corner of his constellation, cocooned in light, his skin buzzing — coming to life beneath his dead bones.  _A resurrection._

 

A messy mop of black hair caught his eye as he looked down.  Draco stared curiously, as a knot began to form in his chest, threatening to squeeze every last breath of air out of his lungs.  Then, the black-haired mop lifted his head toward the sky.  Harry was unmistakable.  Draco grazed his lips with the pad of two fingers, a smile forming against them.

 

 _‘Harmonia nectere passus’_ , he whispered before swooping back down to earth to face Harry for the first time in sixteen years.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Written for the [slytherindor challenge prompt 200](http://slythindor100.livejournal.com/1363061.html) over @ LJ.  
> \- EWE  
> \- Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury / Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.  
> \- A/N: Unbetaed. I only meant for this to be a couple hundred words, but the story got away from me. I'm really proud of what came out of the photo prompt, and I hope you enjoy reading.  
> \- Comments are ♥
> 
> Visit my [LJ](http://felixfvlicis.livejournal.com/) for more fics/ficlets. Let's be friends, yes?


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